Page 65 of The Quiet After The Fall

I bring my lips to hers, barely touching. Featherlight.

“Goodnight, Knox.” Then she steps back into her room and shuts the door in my face.

I grip the doorframe and hang my head, but a laugh slips out before I can stop it.

“There she fucking is. My Sawyer.”

It’s something…a chance, maybe.

I stand there, leaning against her door for a few minutes, making sure she’s settled, that she doesn’t need me, then I head back to my Jeep and adjust my painfully hard cock.

Tomorrow’s another day.

Chapter 17

Sawyer

Acar horn blaring wakes me up. I blink a few times, staring at an unfamiliar nightstand with a flashing red alarm clock stuck on 4:37.

Then it comes back to me. The motel. Wonder World. Knox. My face heats, thinking about what we did. But the more I lay here, playing it over in my mind, the more I’m proud that every moment was on my own terms. I wanted to replace some of the horrific memories there, and we did, if only for a short time. It felt good and right to be there with Knox. Or maybe it felt like something, which is better than the emptiness I’ve been carrying for too long.

Nothing will ever change the memories of that night. Nothing will ever take the pain away. Owen is gone. All those people, dead. As much as I tried to pretend and would love to hold onto the good feelings from last night, I know I won’t.

I reach for my phone, powering it on for the first time since I texted mom last night. As expected, I’m met with a minute worth of buzzing. All from her.

Not right now…she’ll understand.

I set it back down and scoot up the bed, tucking my knees into the ridiculous FINger foods shirt. It’s my birthday. I’ve lived to see another year. It’s the first one I’ve woken up to alone since forever. Even before Owen and I started dating, we were always here in Lake Mercer, always together.

He’s never not been the first person to wish me a happy birthday.

Of course, Owen had a whole thing he’d do. A planned production. The first year we were together he showed up at my apartment at seven in the morning with a pan, a dozen eggs, and the strongest conviction that he knew how to make breakfast. He didn’t. The eggs were runny, the toast came out charred, and he presented the whole thing on my nicest plate like he was in a cooking contest about to be judged.

Happy birthday, he said. I made you a feast.

There was a piece of shell in the eggs. I kept that to myself.

He did it every year after that, each time equally confident, each time worse, somehow. Last year, he’d attempted hollandaise from a packet and the results were a gray lumpy muck, but he stood in my kitchen singing the wrong words to whatever song was playing and looking so pleased with himself that I sat down and ate every bite.

I would give anything to have to pick eggshell off my tongue right now.

It’s cruel, this grief. How it comes in waves, sometimes big enough to engulf me, other times, like right now, as a quiet understanding that nothing will ever be the same. All the ordinary things I didn’t think twice about are over. Runny eggs and lumpy pancakes. Wrong lyrics sung loudly. His bright smile as he said happy birthday, and the warmth of his arms as he pulled me into them.

He always tried his best. It may have come out all wrong, but I loved him for it anyway.

I press the back of my hand to my mouth as the tears fall. Breathe. I repeat the word again and again, forcing air through my nose until the pain passes enough to move my limbs.

Then there’s a knock at the door.

It’s probably housekeeping. I stay put. Checkout’s not for a few hours.

They knock again.

“Coming!” I untuck my knees, wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, and cross the room, cracking the door so whoever it is can’t see all of me.

Knox is standing there a step away from the doorway wearing his aviators and that Trout of Office shirt that looks even more ridiculous in the light of a new day. His hair is messy, the way I love it, and it momentarily distracts me from noticing what he’s holding. A paper coffee cup and a white bakery box.

“Happy birthday, Thorne.”